Death in Berlin
by waspinthelotus
Summary: Perverse Basterds/Landa fanfic. AU interrogation and flashbacks to Landa's violent sexual history in 1930's Berlin. Donny/Landa perversion occurs as well. DubCon, M/M, Sadomasochism, Orig. Char too!
1. Berlin is for Murderers and Masochists

**Title: **_Death in Berlin_

**Summary: **In this AU, Aldo and the Basterds kidnap Landa. After some coarse interrogation and jaw-flappin', Landa gets a little dazed and confused, and begins to reminisce about his violent sexual past with a Berlin rentboy. Donny later confronts Landa alone and some filthy violent peversion occurs. This story explores the sadistic sides of both the character of Hans Landa and of Donny Donowitz (since its so obvious to me they both have one!).  
**  
Rating: **NC-17 for graphic violence and slashy sex. Non-con (dub-con?), choking, bondage, humiliation, sadomasochism.  
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Pairings: **Col. Hans Landa/OMC, Col. Hans Landa/Donny Donowitz

**  
Disclaimer: **Quentin Tarentino invented the Basterds. I only bend them to my perversity. The character of Tadzio is obviously heavily influenced by the boy from Thomas Mann's short story "Death in Venice" so I kind of based my title off of that. Enjoy.

It was 1939 and a man in uniform was taking a walk. Breathing cumulus into the frigid night air, he gazed up at the empty windows of taverns and rooming houses, desolate by deportation. The man's suitcase contained all paperwork necessary for promotion under the Sicherheitsdienst—or S.S – the papers were written in German with French translation. France was where here we could be going.

But for now, a young Colonel Hans Landa was in Berlin.

Landa saw the tavern glowing like a haunted relic amongst the evicted buildings. This was the last remaining gemstone of a dying breed, he mused. One last gasp of rebellion against the Third Reich. The Germans called it the modern Sodom. But to Berliners, it was a bar called The Patriot.

As he entered, the black-haired, perfume-soaked rentboys cooed in his direction. They had seen the uniform before, dozens, hundreds of times. There was a stereograph boasting nude pictures. Half-empty cups of absinthe littered the tables. Landa passed the drinks and boys with an aloofness perfected by his profession. He had no time for the wet eyes of sluts and junkies. He went upstairs. And went to the room. To Tadzio.

"How avant-garde," Someone said, in English.

The accent was atrocious, the French phrase tripping on the tongue clumsily.

It was Donny's voice, echoing like a golem. Then Landa heard the other Basterds laughing.

The back end of Aldo's musket caught Landa across the temple. He was jerked from his daydream, his nightmare. Tied to a chair in some damp basement, feeling the blood curl down his cheek, Landa awoke. Then he put his dark eyes on Aldo and spit.

"Yer sittin' here shakin' in yer boots tellin' us about some faerie bar of yester-year, ya kraut faggot. Now," Aldo was smoking a cigar under a single shaft of light, straddling a chair, arms bent. He blew the smoke in Landa's eyes. "whatcher _need be_ tellin' us is everythan' else. Talkin' bout nine teen hundred 'n fourty 'n forward. See, I figger yer a little banged up in the noggin from our previous encounter, seein' as we had to do some convincin' to get you to come with us..."

Correction: they had almost killed him. The Basterds had, quite cleverly Landa would have admitted, found Landa's private (one could call it treacherous) headquarters, le petit café in the red light district. They kicked him 'til blood came outta his nose and put a gag in his mouth. They had taken him _here_. Wherever _here_ was. Poured ale down his throat. Tied him to a chair. For what? Interrogation? Or revenge?

Aldo leaned forward, his rugged face lit up in the pillar of lamplight. The smoke made a halo around his head. "Suddenly you ain't the talkiative type. What kinda type that is, Donny?"

Donny retorted: "Remind me again, why haven't we killed him yet?"

"The word I was lookin' for is Loquacious, Donny. I mean the loquacious type."

Landa sniffed softly, tasting blood. He craned his head to see the pale, brooding shadows of Donny and Utivich behind Aldo. There was no one else, he calculated. He cleared his throat. He had not lost his eloquence. "Mister Aldo. You're clearly underestimating my dedication to my service and country, if you believe that I will so easily give up the information you're requesting. I take too much pride in my independent research to have you and your unskilled yanks putting their grubby hands all over it. You'll simply have to kill me, boys, an honor I'll happily grant you and the Fuhrer will happily decapitate you for."

"See, I don't buy that." Aldo chewed on his lip, and pulled the chair out, the sound grating across the walls. He stood over Landa, put his hands on his waist, sucked on the end of that cigar. "Nah, Hans, you ain't so honorable yerself. My guess is you'd rather be a traitor 'n git outta here alive, maybe with both yer balls if you plan on usin' em. What yer interested in is savin' yer own nazi ass. You wanna make a deal."

"A deal." Landa, unconvinced, smacked his lips.

"Yessir, a deal. See, I happen to know you ain't so buddy-buddy with mister Hitler as you make out to be. I happen to know yer runnin' yer own enterprise down here in France and you could git yer head chopped off for it if word got around."

Landa swallowed, saw the edge of Donny's baseball bat against a sliver of light.

In a swift movement, Aldo stuck the toe of his boot under Landa's seat and dragged him under the shaft of light. Illuminated like that, the Basterds could see just what state Landa was in. In fact, it was a bit of a tickle for them. Straight-backed against a rickety wooden chair, he was still in full uniform—gloves, coat, medals, boots, everything. But he was, indeed, tied to that chair-- arms were crossed, wrists joined behind him in a genius collection of rope knots. His ankles were bound up to the legs of the chair, forcing his feet wide apart. His hay-colored hair stuck to his forehead, blood beading on his nose, defiant eyes narrowing at the burst of light.

"Yer lookin' awful vulnerable right about now, Hans." Aldo chuckled. "Which is good for Donny here, ain't nothin' he loves more 'n hitting nazis in the balls with a baseball bat…"

Landa's breath caught. Through the blast of light he blinked at the figure of Sgt. Donny Donowitz moving towards him, bat raised. Striding into the ray of light, the man forced Landa's knees further apart with his bootheel, grinning wide. The light made him look like a jewish devil, a wicked black-haired animal—a bear jew.

"You wanna fuckin' talk, Hans Lahn-Dah?" Donny sneered, heaving his bat across his shoulder. He was wearing a sleeveless shirt. He smelled like sweat.

Landa's brows crashed together. He felt his heart rising in his throat.

Slowly Donny weighed the bat in his hand. Then he pointed the bat down at Landa, put it against his chin. Forced Landa to look at him.

"Listen you nazi piece of shit, I'm going to fuckin' hurt you." Donny drawled.

In shock, Landa's mouth dropped open, but before he could speak the bat relocated itself, grazing painfully slowly across the uniformed man's thigh, and then pressing firmly, with finality, into his groin. "No, stop!" he said it without thinking, out of fear. It was happening too fast.

He heard Aldo chuckling.

His eyes were stuck on Donny's face, which was frighteningly captivating in its stillness: dark, heavy eyes staring down on him, mouth curled into a sadistic smirk.

"Don't." Landa spoke quickly. The bat rotated softly, rubbing his cock through his pants. An electric heat traveled down his waist. Unintentional.

"Don't what, fuckin' nazi bitch?" Donny barked, pushing Landa's legs apart wider with his foot. The Colonel's disposition had become unusually timid. He felt the humiliation and fear before the blow, about to be beat like a dog with the Basterds as audience.

The bat was raised. Donny had explosives in his eyes.

Landa squeezed his eyes shut, cried out: "OKAY. YES. A DEAL. LET'S MAKE A DEAL."

Time hung. He expected to feel the sour torment of pain any moment. The bat did not collide. He shuddered.

The applause from Aldo and Utivich filled up the tiny basement. Donny, visibly disappointed, pulled away, dropping his foot from Landa's leg. The bat cracked along the ground.

"We got us a real patriot tonight!" Aldo put his fingers in his mouth and whistled, then went over to Landa and grabbed him by the chin. He held him mercilessly, squeezing Landa's face, the cigar inches from his cheek, clutched between two thick fingers. Landa's eyes stung. "So yer gonna be a good lil' nazi and tell us everything we want to know, is that crystal fuckin' clear?"

Landa felt his head being twisted around, shook up and down by Aldo's firm grip. He coughed. "Yes, yes." He hissed.

The Basterds catcalled, chortled. Aldo mashed Landa's S.S. cap back on his skull, ruffling his hair with it. He felt his heart racing, raging against his insides. Then Aldo knocked him on the head again with the pistol and it went black.


	2. The Loquatious Type

"Donny, go 'n give the Patriot something to fuckin' drink."

They had taken to calling Landa "the Patriot" in a facetious manner, as they had a habit of bestowing their own names among their enemies. "Jew Hunter" didn't seem fitting since they had tied him up in the basement and had him agree to complete national treachery. The one downside, if it could be called that, to keeping headquarters in a tavern (especially an abandoned one such as this) was that there was nothing clean to drink, no water or fresh beer. Nothing, that is, except for innumerable caskets of spirits. So the boys had taken up the Vodka and Schnapps. They were howling around a game of poker.

Donny kicked open the cellar door and noisily walked down, the screams of his comrades spilling in behind him. He was sans bat but loud enough to wake Landa from a concussion-induced stupor. The Colonel groaned.

"Are ya fuckin' thirsty, jackass?" Donny had a tin canteen and an uncorked bottle of vodka, half-drunk, he was sipping between the two, as if it mattered. He plunked down in front of Landa, wiped his mouth sleazily.

"Sergeant Donowitz, I do not drink alcohol." Landa stated.

Donny licked his lips. "You don't fuckin' drink, you die. You die, you ain't no good to us. We ain't go no water, Patsie. We got booze."

Landa shook his head. So Donowitz stood up, grabbed him by his handsome german hair, and shoved the canteen against his lips. Landa spluttered, then swallowed: Donny was forcing it down his throat faster than he could drink. The vodka dripped down his neck, onto his uniform. Donny laughed, threw the empty containter across the cellar (it echoed, humorously).

Donny wiped Landa's mouth with his dirty hand, mashing his lips. Landa shrunk back, rebelling against the burn of liquor in his throat. Donny laughed, sat on his haunches.

"I gotta question for you…" Donny reeled, gulping at another tankard. Landa realized with a bit of satisfaction that Donowitz must have been drunk long before his arrival in the cellar. His eyes had the telltale glimmering stupidity in them, foretelling recklessness and animal behavior.

Landa felt superior. He cooed. "Yes, Donowitz?"

"That story you was tellin' us. Some sentimental shit about Berlin." Donny rubbed his eyes, grinned. "That shit…. You were tellin' the truth huh?"

Landa put his teeth together, feeling a pang in his side. He nodded. "I was performing the rare babble. But yes."

"You know," Donny laughed then, swallowing a mouthful of vodka. He glared at Landa. "Aldo 'n Smitty, they fuckin' have mercy for you. Me? No. I ain't got a drop to give. If it were up to me, I woulda killed you hours ago."

Landa tasted his lips, body twitching against his bonds. Exhausted and bleeding, with a heaviness in his limbs, the Colonel smiled, "If it were up to you, Donny, you would have bashed my brains in good and proper. I am well aware of your style."

Donny glowered. "You sound smug, nazi. Wanna tell me why?"

Landa lifted his brows at the young, dark-haired male. "Forgive me, mister Donowitz, if I am not mistaken you were just nursing me with spirits as if I were a beloved jew babe." He gave a slender shrug in his bonds. "I could have only assumed that you yourself have come to accept the situation. That I am here, your, for lack of a better word, slave. You've won. What is there to be bitter about?"

Donny shot up. The movement jerked Landa in his seat. "You wanna fuckin' try me, Lahhn-dah? C'mon. I'll fight you, you smug bastard. I'll fuckin' cut your bonds. Man to man, let's do it."

He produced a blade and he was—of course. He was cutting Landa free. This was a gloriously serendipitous opportunity for the Colonel. Landa eyed the narrow window in the cellar. An escape route. How clever of him. The plan appeared in his mind, agile even if under the handicap of liquor. A true genius move. He congratulated himself.

When Donny had freed his arms and legs, the Austrian-German rubbed at his gloved wrists and flashed an appreciative, and sardonic, smirk at the Bear Jew. He was ready for the triumphant duck and sprint towards the window, the throwing of barrels in the way of the clumsy and booze-addled Donowitz, the breaking of window glass, the splash of cold evening air on the face. He would escape like rats escape. It seemed appropriate.

As he shot forward Donny's body collided with his full force. He felt the complete heat and animal power of it as he was slammed against the cold stone of the basement wall. And then came, quite unexpectedly, the hot clash of Donny's groin against him, and animal-man hands moving under his coat, squeezing at his flesh beneath his clothes.

He fought for breath, his head spun and the other man's warm bare hands pushed into his rigid cock. He was reminded of Berlin. His mind unraveled. The taste of vodka lingered on his tongue. Donny's hand covered his eyes, his mouth. He could smell dirt and sweat on Donny's hands.

"What did you do to him?" Donny growled, then put his fingers on Landa's neck, pushing him further into the wall.

The Colonel kicked at air, grabbed at the man's wrists, swallowing thickly. "What?! You're mad."

Donny grinned, pushing his hips forcefully into the Colonel's thigh. Landa felt the heat burning there. His own cock jumped. His face flushed with heat. This was stupid. He should have been gone by now. Donny said: "Tell me you fuckin' nazi slut."

When Donny started undoing Colonel Landa's belt, he yelled, fought. But he was disoriented and inept. The man spun him around, pushed his face into the stone. He felt his hands being cuffed. Donny had handcuffs. Surprise.

"Stop," Landa gasped. Not this way, this was not the plan.

Donny got a hold of the belt buckle, yanked the trousers down enough to get a peek at the pale, too-soft flesh of Landa's lower back. Then he stood back for just a moment, admiring it, like it was some perverse painting.

"What did you do to him, Lahhndahh?" Donny sing-songed.

"Nothing…" Landa whispered. Then Donny grabbed him by the hair, slammed his forehead into the rock. Landa saw stars. He made helpless sounds when Donny put his hands under his shirt, pinched at his flesh, wrapped a hand around his dick which was impossibly, perversely throbbing, pushed him against the wall like a whore.

"I…" Landa whimpered.

Donny put his fingers in Landa's mouth. Landa felt them gagging him. He felt Donny's hard-on pressing against his naked back.

"I killed him."


	3. Bulletholes and Confessions

Col. Landa meant it to be like an interrogation. He would've told the beautiful tan-skinned thing that he was under suspicion by the S.S. for being a spy. Berlin was a warzone and the fags were going extinct. He had bought loyalty from the Patriot occupants and knew, deep down, that the boy's life was already lost. He was simply cutting it short. It seemed the fair thing to do… he was doing him a favor.

Of course it did not go as planned. Since then Landa's method has become much more premeditated, refined.

"I am like a surgeon." Landa spoke in Italian. It was the language Tadzio understood inherently; unlike German. Tadzio was from Venice. There the canals were filled with disease and parasites. Landa knew this. He teased him, called him a gnat.

"You are a little gnat, Tadzio." Landa purred. "And I am going to investigate, dissect you. You are an experiment to me."

This, of course, was all before the sex, which Landa performed at first with hateful detachment, as most German soldiers did in Berlin. The rentboys were used to it. Tadzio was used to it. Landa could not tolerate the way the youth stared at him, eyes and hair black as coal. The first time they fucked it was stunted and shameful—because Landa had only done it once before, because he was terrified of the perverse act of nudity and insertion.

Then he put his hands around the young boy's neck, tightly, and tried again. This time it was better. He found his rhythm. Sinking back onto the male's body he heard the hitched moans of suffocation, but felt the unmistakable results of masochism.

"This night being as… revealing… as it's been," The Colonel spoke later, half-dressed after he had bent the lad across the headboards, beaten him, made him come all over himself, gagged him, spanked him, choked him nearly to death, "you surely can't expect me to let you walk out of here alive."

"And why not, sir?" The youth spoke with bruised lips, watching Landa's Kongsberg pistol as it wavered in the nazi's hand.

Landa pursed his lips. "Little gnat, your time is up. For all of the sluts in Berlin, time is up." He ran a hand through his hair, gestured with the cylinder of the pistol, a bullet in the chamber. "You must be aware you wouldn't have lasted very much longer anyway. But here you are. The resilience of men is something of interest to me. Human beings will do anything to stay alive. To survive."

Tadzio shifted on the sheets, laying nude, recalcitrant.

"Take you for example. You, suck cock to stay alive. You take cock. You let men fuck you and you like it." As Landa spoke he felt heat crawl up his face. His finger tightened on the trigger, pistol aimed at Tadzio's liver.

"You like it," Tadzio retorted, eyes flaring. "You wanted to fuck me. Stupid German. You want to fuck, you want to kill."

Landa was struck for a moment. He ticked a brow. Licking his lips he nodded. "Goodnight, Tadzio."

From beneath the mattress there was a handheld pistol. Tadzio shot him through the collar bone. The scream he made rattled the sodomites from their coitus.

Donny grabbed the edges of Landa's waistcoat and tugged, yanked until the fabric ripped free from the shoulders, some medals and nationalist pins spiraling off into the darkness. He slapped Landa across the head, laughed: "Lemme see it, YOU FUCKIN' COWARD!" The Colonel threw his elbows in a panic, catching Donny in the face, but the coat came off, and Landa just kept struggling, until his cold nude ass came down on the bulge in Donny's trousers. "LEMME SEE IT."

Donny thrusted and gave a chesty laugh, grabbed Landa's neck again and knocked his head into the brick. "Let me see it, I want to see it you fucking slut."

The Colonel was nearly blacked out, but wiggled against the heat pushing into his backside, gasped for air, weakly obliging. Donny pulled the collar of the shirt down across Landa's back, the cloth tearing. There it was: a deep gully, a frayed bullet wound in the flat bone of the German's shoulder blade. Donny circled it with his thumb and pressed down.

A fusillade of cursewords erupted from Landa. Donny curled his tongue, "Oh, does that hurt? I think you like pain… you like givin' it, you like receivin' it." With that he slowed down, just enough for it to be excruciating when their bodies made their way down to the ground, and Donny started unbuttoning Landa's shirt proper, and pushing the man's legs apart.

"He loved it," Landa mumbled, delirious with pain. "He loved me."

"He put one over on you." Donny sing-songed, dragging a heavy hand through Landa's hair and then slapping him across the face. Landa jerked his hips at the slap, made some breathy sound from deep in his gut. There were birds in the nazi's skull. One too many collisions with the wall, one too many gulps of premium vodka—birds exploding.

"I'm…" Landa whispered, eyes closed, brows raised, sweating and gulping, flesh burning all over.

"Hard as a rock," Donny remarked, taking in the state of the concussed Colonel.

With his hair moist and sticking to his face he almost looked boyish, too young-looking for his age, it was criminal. Landa's mouth hung open and wet like a harlot, dark eyes half-lidded, begging hopelessly, abandoning dignity. Donny stared, rolled his pelvis against him, lacking all finesse save for pure sexual necessity, and said to the man beneath him: "you fucking whore, you want this."

He shoved his fingers into Landa's mouth, who panted madly against them, and shouted: "fuckin' suck on em, slut", which Landa did, his tongue lapping against the digits like an obedient dog, eyelids fluttering. With a satisfied smirk Donny pulled his hand away, but not before coarsely dragging the spit-slicked hand down Landa's slack lips. He released himself from the confines of those rough workman's trousers, slickened up the swollen length of his prick and laid it into the furrow of Landa's ass, which wiggled much more wantonly than the Colonel wished.

In a single, unapologetic thrust Donny filled Landa up to the hilt, their animal yells bouncing off the walls. Tears stung Landa's eyes as the Bear Jew put all his weight onto him, owned him like a dog, pinned his arms behind him and pulled out in agonizing steadiness, only to crash his hips forward again.

When the motion abruptly stopped, and Landa found himself unbearably impaled on the Bear Jew's cock, he choked back a sob.

A hand captured the back of his head, pulled him back by his hair, a voice growled in his ear: "fuckin' beg me."

Then a sharp spank came swiftly down upon his ass. His knees clenched, body shivering, cock jerking stiff. His gloved hands flexed, laid across one-another in a vice grip behind his back—his body ached, strung tight by intolerable need. Donny spanked him again, barking cruel grunts of laughter, and Landa hitched with every slap.

"Beg me for it…"  
The hand crashed down again, then tugged at his german hair, he moaned pitifully. His forehead was hot, each abuse bringing him further to the breaking point. His arms dropped, wrists released from the jew's grip, and he hid his head in his arms, gasping: "Fuck me, please just fuck me…"

Donny knew how to fuck. He fucked Landa into the wall. The smell of sex and sweat and blood came off of them. Donny laid into him and called him names, pulled his hair, stuck his fingers down his throat, made him gag. Landa bit the back of his gloved hand to suppress the pathetic, slutty gasps echoing off the basement walls.

With a triumphant curse Donowitz wrapped his hands around Landa's neck and began to choke him. Prying at the thick, paw-like digits encircling his neck the Colonel hitched, sucked at the air when the man allowed him the luxury, and all in all made a total whore out of himself. As the sex became disorganized and wild, a hot lightning bolt of masochistic thrill spasmed through Landa and he came, breathing jaggedly into the obstacle of Donny's cupped hand across his mouth. Donny allowed him the sensation of his dick buried deep up his arse for a moment longer before he dismounted. Straddling Landa's waist, he fisted his cock to orgasm and shot a rope of cum that zigzagged across Landa's naked ass and uniform, splattering into the plumage of the his tussled golden hair.

Properly sitting on the middle of Landa's back as if the Colonel were his miniature prize horse, Donny chuckled to himself. Landa swallowed lungfuls of air. Donowitz stuffed his palm into the German's cum-tainted locks, tousling it roughly.

"Thatta boy." He whistled. "You turned out to be a good little fuck toy, didn't you."

Landa replied, with shameless clarity, staring at the blank slate floor: "What's that English expression? About losing one's marbles?"

"Shut the fuck up, Laahndah." Donny stood up and examined the cum sparkling in Landa's hair. He zipped up. Aldo and Utivich were howling upstairs over their drunken card game. "Yer a fuckin' traitor now, baby. Worse than that, yer a queer to boot. And you just got fucked up the ass by the Bear Jew and loved every second of it. So where do traitors go to get away from the murderous krauts that're gonna wanna make your dick into polish sausage?"

Landa shifted, felt cum dripping down his backside. He bit his lower lip. "I don't know, mister Donowitz. Where do we go?"

Donny sucked daintily at a fingernail, making a kissing sound with his lips. "Ahhh, Berlin!"


End file.
